No More Invisible Girls

I was never your typical girl growing up. By 4, I knew that I loved wearing dresses with pretty shoes, but often got my mom mad after ruining them playing catch with the boys, hanging upside down on the jungle gym and trodding into puddles like a crazed monster, hellbent on ruining whatever city was in my way. My dad liked it though, and often laughed as he wiped away the tears from my mudcaked face, and made me fly so that I would smile again.

I remember the first time I saw Superman the movie. I was 8 and it was a lazy Sunday morning. My dad had just set up our new VCR and he excitedly turned to me and said, “I have something you just might like.” That first few seconds, where the famous soundtrack kicks in, got me hooked right away. By the time Superman had the falling helicopter in one hand and Lois in his other, I was hooked. I broke my piggybank and begged my dad to get me the second movie.

But my dad one-upped me, of course, and got me my first comic book. The piggypank breaking become a monthly thing, and soon, I had no space on my shelves for anything but Wonder Woman, Superman, Green Lantern and The Justice League.

As I grew older, I learnt to appreciate the finer nuances of the superheroes I came to worship. I longed to be loving like Diana, to be as unselfish as Superman, to be as fearless as Hal Jordan. I had a burning need to save the world in some small way, and try to teach this sense of responsibility to the kids I come face to face with at my job as an educator. I suppose I’m just doing my duty as a fellow superhero.

I’m 24 now, and Superman still happens to be something my dad and I share in common, other than our love for Manchester United. Sunday mornings are still spent reading comics together, although this time around, I get to be the one to go down to the store to pick up our issues. 

And so the rest, they say, is history.